


A Million Shores and Bays

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Long-Distance Friendship, Pen Pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t exactly her fault she’s come to trust a man she’s never met over, well, any other man she’s actually met. It’s what makes all of it safer, easier even, knowing that there’s no way she can actually fuck it all up by running away when she’s already away to begin with. Pen Pals AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejollypirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejollypirate/gifts).



Emma Swan doesn't do romance. She doesn't do second dates or candlelit dinners or hand-in-hand strolls through the park. And she definitely doesn't do handwritten letters to a man halfway across the world in pure 18th century fashion.

But this, this is different. This isn't romance, it's a _project_. It's a hobby, it's something she started because it seemed like a good idea at the time; signing up to an online pen pal registry and being matched up with another user. It's...it’s only been a few weeks but, well, now it's familiar.

And Killian Jones isn't a lover waiting for her across the Atlantic Ocean, he's her friend. He's someone she can easily and unflinchingly share every moment of her life with without a second thought. It should scare her but maybe it's easier to divulge trivial - and not so trivial - details to a stranger.

Ruby, of course, begs to differ, calls him Mr. Darcy purely because he lives in London and he's hot.

(Ruby's words, not hers.)

(Not that she’s contradicting them. She’s seen that photo on his online registry profile.)

Her friend-slash-neighbour has taken to quoting the Jane Austen novel on every odd occasion, as if to serve as her own internal monologue. And every time she gets a letter and Ruby squeals, Emma thinks maybe it was a bad idea to binge watch Pride and Prejudice with her.

It isn’t exactly her fault she’s come to trust a man she’s never met over, well, any other man she’s actually met. It’s what makes all of it safer, easier even, knowing that there’s no way she can actually fuck it all up by running away when she’s already _away_ to begin with. Not that she’d have a reason to run away, she reminds herself constantly, because they _aren’t_ Elizabeth and Darcy, they’re friends. She believes that - no matter how hard Ruby rolls her eyes whenever she says it.

-/-

And she’s gotten used to Ruby’s excitement over a piece of paper. That’s what she tells herself anyway until an occasion such as this one where Ruby, Southern belle accent and all, bursts in through her front door, yelling.

“Emma! Your gentleman caller sent you a letter!” Emma almost chokes on the mug of scalding hot coffee she’s gulping down and fuck, she’s already fifteen minutes late, she doesn’t need Ruby goading her about Killian Jones right now.

Emma shoots her a look, swallows down the bitter liquid, ignores the little flip her stomach does at the thought of reading his letter, “You need to stop going through my mail.”

“Our mailboxes are right next to each other,” she shrugs as if she didn’t just pick a lock to get through to Emma’s letter. That’s something Emma thinks she shouldn’t have taught her. She only plucks the letter out of Ruby’s hands and refuses to react to the shit-eating grin her friend is sporting. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“I will,” she slips her leather jacket on, “but not when we’re late and not when you’re staring at me like that.”

“But his letters are always so romantic,” Ruby whines, slumps a little where she’s standing.

“You are reading way too much into them.”

“And you’re not reading into them enough.” Her expression is halfway between a pout and a smirk and it stays that way up until Emma drops her off at her diner where she throws Emma a wink and promises to get information out of her during lunch.

She glances at the letter on the passenger seat five times in the few minutes it takes her to get to the station. It’s a miracle she doesn’t hit a signpost.

She doesn't read it right away like she'd like, what with Graham bugging her about how he ate all the bear claws because she was fifteen minutes late and David refusing to agree that he assisted in the crime. They're toddlers, the both of them.

It's only when they trail out of the station to go on patrol - Graham throwing her a wink and a snide comment over giving her some space to read her letter (because Ruby is a town gossip and she just had to mention it to Graham, who's actually an ass) while David groans (because he's too much of an older brother to her to want to know about the men in her life) (not that she's dating Killian Jones or anything) - that she rips the envelope open with a renewed sense of excitement.

_Dear Swan,_

_The more you divulge about your little town, the more intrigued I become. What exactly, pray tell, is Miners’ Day? What is Granny's first name? Why isn't your town on any of the maps I own? (Just to be clear, I did not venture out and purchase sixteen different maps just to check. I simply happen to own a lot of maps. It's somewhat of a hobby. And now I sound old, and definitely a right bit nerdy.) (I will blame my map hoarding on my lineage, for the sake of sounding a little more intriguing.)_

_As for your question, the answer is yes; I did, in fact, name my dog Davy (and thus, Davy Jones). It was my brother's idea, to be fair. He's always had a penchant for being rather lame. And then the git up and left me to move in with his girlfriend (and soon-to-be-fiance) and now it's just Davy and I. Not that I'm complaining, the mutt has a way of brightening up my days. Though, he's a pale comparison to one of your letters, love._

_I watched The Princess Bride on your insistence and I can say, without a doubt, that I loved it. Davy has mixed feelings about Dread Pirate Roberts, but I simply think he’s jealous. I can’t blame him - him being a pirate without any pirating adventures, after all. It would surely take a toll on a man (or dog), don’t you think?_

_(Speaking of, I fancy myself a rather close thing to Westley, wouldn’t you think? We’re both charming and alluring.)_

_My best mate Robin wishes you a good evening. (I tried to explain time differences to him and how my letters more often than not reach you in the daytime, but he’s a stubborn arse.) And I, Swan, wish you a delightful week ahead. I know Monday’s can be a sour spot so I can only hope some part of this letter made you smile. For my sake, don’t forget to eat lunch today - and none of that terrible greasy nonsense you’re so fond of. You need your health to keep fighting the good fight._

_Your friend,_

_Killian_

She reads it over twice, as she usually does with his letters, smiling and rolling her eyes at just the right moments. And then once more, for good measure before she’s reaching over for her legal pad and shuffling through her drawer for a working pen.

It’s bad work ethic, she thinks, to do personal work during her office hours, but those file cabinets have been a mess for two months, they can stand being a mess for fifteen more minutes.

She’s never been good with words, and compared to him, she’s like a toddler trying to tell a story, but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t call her out on the fact that she can’t do flowery language and avoids using the word _ironically_ because she’s afraid she’s going to use it wrong.

She’s never been good with words, but for him, she tries.

-/-

_Killian -_

_Miners’ Day is for the miners (obviously), I don’t think anyone knows Granny’s name for sure because they’re too scared to ask (she’s got a crossbow in the broom closet, and I might have a badge but I still wouldn’t go up against her on a good day), and maybe you should try Googling the town instead (I want to call you out on your old-timey methods but, then again, I’m sitting at my desk hand-writing you a letter so who am I to judge?). I’ve lived in Storybrooke since I was 17, and even I haven’t uncovered all its secrets._

_I think you’re unfairly depriving Davy of pirate adventures. You’re his sole guardian after all, if he can’t count on you to take him out onto the open seas, who can he count on? But, you’d need a ship for that wouldn’t you? And I doubt you have a ship - you’re no Westley after all._

_Let Robin know I’ll take his greeting anyway even though it’s way too early in the morning here. Maybe if I pretend it’s evening, the start-of-the-week-blues will kick itself to the curb. Doesn’t help that I’m on filing duty for the next few days. A little nugget of wisdom: never take up sheriffing a small town unless the only crimes you want to solve are ‘who stole Billy’s monkey wrench?’_

_(Spoiler alert: he flung it in his trash accidentally. Solve of the century.)_

_I’m betting a lawyer has a much more interesting regular week than I do. Don't you have that gig lined up for this weekend at Robin's bar? Make sure you practice otherwise you'll forget your lines mid-performance and the crowd will throw beer bottles at you._

_A little less pissed about Monday morning,_

_Emma_

-/-

She teeters away from her strictly onion ring diet to opt for a grilled chicken salad for lunch from the diner. Ruby shoots her a skeptical look over her french fries but Emma just shrugs like it’s a common thing for her, doesn’t explain any of it to her friend.

There's nothing to explain, after all.

(She hates the salad, and makes sure to add that opinion in the postscript of the letter before mailing it.)

-/-

When she had first started writing to Killian, her letters had been short, abrupt, and usually divulging nothing of her life. How or when he started to pry her so open that her letters grew to double-sided messes, full of bits about her week and about her life in general, is beyond her. His letters are always longer than hers, like he can’t wait to tell her everything he’s thought of since she’s last sent hers. She sees it in his cursive, the haste to get everything down, the way the words are usually connected together with a line, no spaces in between.

She tells him about the flock of ducklings that Graham rescued from under an abandoned truck on the way out of town and how much Davy might love to play with them, she talks about Ingrid’s redecorations of the ice cream shop, the way her boots are getting too worn out just before the cold kicks in, how she wishes some days that she didn’t live in a small town because her rough nights mean every single person in her 5-mile radius learns of her dreadful hangover the next day.

He’s right there with her in his replies, in the way he lets conversations flow from nothing to everything all in the same paragraph. It’s a skill of his, this letter writing. Maybe Ruby isn’t too far off with the whole Darcy thing, after all. He tells her of how he managed to tear a hole in his favourite navy blue sweater, how he looks forward to Friday evenings because that’s when he gets to see his brother and eat a home cooked meal, how much Davy _would_ actually adore the ducks considering he runs around in circles every time he sees them while they’re out on the boat. (Because, _yeah_ , turns out he does own a boat after all, the smug bastard.) He tells her about Robin, about Robin’s bar, about his favourite spot in all of London, the one right outside The National Gallery.

That last bit ends up with him telling her that he dropped out of art school, which starts a new discussion, their replies scrawled right at the end of their letters in some kind of agreed form of conversation.

 _You went to art school?_ _But you're a lawyer._

 _Very perceptive_ , _Swan,_ he adds in in his next letter, _but I did say I dropped out of art school. I went into law instead, it was a more viable career option especially considering I did not want my brother to fend for me for all his life. The poor sod would end up buying all my paintings just to keep me afloat, I'm sure._

(Because of course he's an artist, on top of being a musician and a lawyer and a dog-dad _and_ owning a boat. She should just expect him to win a Nobel peace prize and cure cancer at this point.)

She likes how close he is to his brother, likes that, even though he was an orphan, he still had someone. She has Ingrid who took her in a few months shy of her 18th birthday and decided to keep her afterwards anyway. And he has Liam, who's fought tooth and nail to keep Killian by his side.  

And she tries not to dwell on the fact that even though it's a letter, and she shouldn't be able to, she picks out every small piece of gratitude and every insecurity.

Maybe that's why she asks.

_Would you paint me something?_

He doesn't reply in the next letter, choosing instead to talk about Davy's excitement over cream cheese bagels. But the second letter after that comes with a larger envelope, holding a serenely realistic painting of an ocean landscape, filled with blues and greens and a silhouette of a ship. He doesn’t mention anything about it in the letter except a little _Hope it reached in one piece, you never can trust postal services to pay mind to those ‘fragile’ stickers._

It's good. It's really fucking good. And she stares at it for a good half hour, as if committing it to memory, before very carefully standing it up to lean against the mirror of her dresser, and adding in _photo frame_ on her grocery list.

-/-

Saturdays are reserved for breakfast at Ingrid’s, and even though her mother only lives on the edge of Storybrooke - not too far from her own place -, it always feels like a getaway to her. Even if it is for just a few hours.

Mostly, it's a relief to not have brunch with Mary Margaret or drinks with Ruby because both of them always end up gravitating towards the subject of a certain Englishman.

But it's also because the minute she steps into Ingrid’s house, she's tackled by a myriad of memories from her teenage years. Every time she stands at the kitchen island as her mom makes scrambled eggs and bacon, she can't help but revel in the waves of nostalgia. She should be over it by now, really, but she likes that she has a home, and she's damn well going to hold on to that for as long as she can.

(She's stubborn that way.)

“How’s work going, dear?”

Emma shrugs like Ingrid’s back isn’t to her. “Same old,” she mumbles over the rim of her coffee mug. “Nothing more exciting than finally switching to a computer based system,” she deadpans. The computers at the station are about 50 years old, give or take, so even though it’s a good thing, it’s also going to take them a little while to implement.

Ingrid smiles, unperturbed by Emma’s sarcasm, placing the staple breakfast of eggs, bacon, and sausages on the table. They sit and dig in, silence surrounding them until Ingrid quips up in what Emma assumes is supposed to be a subtle fashion, “A young man came into the shop the other day. He’s new in town and -”

“Mom.” This is exactly why, in the few months months since her correspondence began, Emma hasn’t mention her pen pal to her mother.

“- rode into the place on his motorbike, no less. He seemed charming, said he was a writer, and -”

“ _Mom_.”

“What? I’m just telling you about something that may interest you.”

“More like some _one_ that you’d like for me to be interested in,” she raises an unamused eyebrow. “I told you to stop trying to set me up with random men.”

“Emma, dear,” her mother’s eyes soften and she releases the hard grip she has on her cutlery, “you know I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” she mutters, shuffles a little bit under Ingrid’s pitying gaze. “I’m fine being alone,” she adds more confidently, diverting her attention back to her eggs.

“That doesn’t mean you need to stay that way. There’s better states than _fine_ , Emma.”

Emma sighs and her mother mirrors the action, but she must get it because she drops the topic. She talks about the ice cream parlour instead and asks Emma about her friends. It’s only when they’re clearing the table, resuming their usual wash-and-dry routine that her mom speaks up with the same tone again, “So, when exactly are you going to tell me about that British boy you write to?”

And Emma’s glad she’s already handed her mom the mug to dry because she would have dropped it all over the linoleum. “I - what-,” she cuts herself off and takes to glaring at the plate in the sink instead. Goddamn Ruby.

“I’ve known for a while, dear,” her mother playfully nudges her shoulder trying to lighten the mood, “why didn’t you ever mention it?”

“Because you’d make a big deal out of it like Ruby and Mary Margaret and Graham do,” she grumbles.

“Is there any reason for them to be making a big deal out if it?”

“No,” Emma says a bit too fast. She breathes in, out, picks up the plate and starts scrubbing, “No, there isn’t. He’s just a friend, who happens to be a man, who lives over a thousand miles away.”

Ingrid hums contemplatively and Emma kind of wants to break the plate in her hands because she knows she’s just sounded way too defensive. She just might snap it in two, she thinks, with how hard she’s sponging it.

“You were never one for writing as far as I can remember.”

“I’m still not,” she exhales, not wanting to argue with Ingrid so early in the morning, “it’s just different. He gets a lot of things that people don’t.”

With her stunted answers, you’d think she was never one for talking, either.

Ingrid hums again, plucking the plate, that’s been scrubbed over a dozen times, out of her hands. She’s left with wrinkled fingers that she doesn’t know what to do with, so she just wrings them together, not knowing why she gets so defensive whenever she talks about Killian.

(More like, not wanting to think about why, at all.)

“I’m glad you’re opening up to more people, you always were a hard nut to crack,” Ingrid half laughs, bumping her shoulder again. That’s the last thing she says about the whole situation, and Emma’s thoughts reel once again as she sits in her Bug to drive to the supermarket as per her routine.

She’d rather not think about how everyone seems to be pushing her towards a man that she’s never even met. One that lives across the ocean. One that actually could just be lying to her about everything, to boot.

(She knows he isn’t - somehow she just _knows_.)

(She doesn’t want to think about that, either.)

But her mind jumps to the fact that she’ll most likely get a letter tomorrow morning. And she’s glad she’s in her car and not in front of a mirror because she really does not want to analyse the smile that she feels immediately crawl onto her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an insanely belated birthday gift for the lovely Casey.  
> be sure to drop me a comment with your thoughts! your feedback means the world to me!
> 
> (title courtesy of angus and julia stone's 'get home.')


	2. Chapter 2

Growing up, Emma avoided dependency for a very, very long time. Dependency meant attachment, and that only meant disappointment when the person left, or the family gave her away. Even after Ingrid, after her first few years at Storybrooke, after being dragged into Ruby's friend circle without any preamble by the girl herself; after all that, it still took her some time getting used to the idea of letting herself have what she's given.

It's been years since then and now; Emma might be a little wary at first but she doesn't fight it all that much anymore. The little weight right under her breastbone, though, that's one thing she never forgot. And as she grips the paper a little too hard, she feels it forming once again in a fashion that seems way too familiar to her.

_Dear Swan,_

_I'm sorry to have to do this to you._

She can't get past that first line, reading it five times before she breathes in heavily and steels herself to continue.

 _Deprive you of my dashing words and brilliant charm for the next two weeks, that is. But, alas, sacrifices have to be made in order to continue living as we do_.

She breathes out and lets her fingers loosen, cursing herself under her breath for jumping the gun like that. For feeling so much at the prospect of it in the first place.

_I know you'll miss me dearly, as I will you, but Elsa's asked Liam to meet her folks back in Denmark and my brother, being the cowardly bloke that he is, has requested I join him. Now, you may write to Davy while I'm gone, but I can't promise back any replies - unfortunately he's more of a 21st century man, has little taste for pen and ink. I raised an uncultured mutt, Swan, and I despise myself for it every day._

He goes on to talk about how he's not so sure letting Robin dogsit is the best idea, isn't even sure if being trapped in a  _metal contraption_ while his brother and brother's girlfriend make eyes at each other is the best idea, either. Her dinner lays abandoned on the table as she finishes the letter, trying to simultaneously do the math in her head. She's never been too good with the subject.

But two weeks means four letters, maybe five. Of about two pages each - three if he has it in him. She's still turning over numbers in her head when she gets to the last line and that's when all the numbers halt - all but the eleven that are written in pristine cursive.

_P.S. For emergencies: +44-5455-42625_

She stares at them long and hard as though they've done nothing short of getting up and walking off the page. They never talked about this, about giving out details to each other that would further their communication. And, okay, she knows where the man lives, where he frequents on a daily basis, and everything but -

Yeah, everything but his fucking telephone number. Which -

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and tries to take it in a stride, tries to take it the way he's given it to her. Casually, calmly, for emergencies only.

It takes her a while to compose herself but she does write back to him, does - in a moment of insane courage - scribble down her own number at the end. She tacks in a for emergenciesin there, too. Just for good measure.

She saves his number in her phone.

And if she stares at it well into the middle of the night, well, no one has to know.

-/-

She nearly calls him four times in the span of two days, for absolutely no reason.

She knows speaking to him on the phone would take their friendship to another level. A level she's not sure she's ready to handle yet. There's a small voice in her head that tells her she hasn't opened herself up to someone like this in years, and perhaps she should stop here and not go any further. If she hears his voice, the next thing she'll want is to see him, and eventually, meet him. And then what? Then he becomes exactly like the other men she's encountered in her life.

She likes this because it's safer, somehow.

So, she shoves her phone in the drawer of her desk at the station and leaves it there for four days.

(She has four missed calls and one text when she brings it back home and plugs it to her charger; none of them are from Killian Jones and she'd be lying if she said disappointment didn't niggle at her.)

(Is it really safer this way, or is she dooming herself to something worse than any of the times before?)

-/-

Their letters resume as normal when he returns but this time, he sends her pictures taken from an actual Polaroid camera along with them. Most of them are of the landscapes in Denmark, shots of lakes and grassy fields, of a large manor-style house that he tells her belongs to Liam's girlfriend, Elsa's family. There's one from an airplane window, one of a flocks of swans, and another of a couple half illuminated by a fireplace that she guesses is Liam and Elsa. They're all pretty pictures and she chalks up  _Photography_ to the list of  _Things Killian Jones is (Unsurprisingly) Good At._

He sends more letters - about four a week - and by Saturday afternoon, Emma's tacked up seven Polaroids on her fridge. The other four lay on the kitchen counter because she doesn't have enough magnets.

She forgets all about the fact that she has his number, that she'd spent two weeks wondering what he sounded like and whether his laugh was a deep one or a light one, as she falls back into their routine. Falls back into how he opens his letters with  _Dear Swan_  and closes them with  _Your friend, Killian_. Falls back into his insight over the smallest of things and his dry humour that matches her own.

Weeks pass by and her mother may ask about "that Killian fellow" (because Emma finally relented and told Ingrid just the bare minimum about her pen pal) and Ruby may visit the station only to team up with Graham to tease her, but it stops mattering. She's decided that he's an ocean away and if it hasn't changed or ruined anything yet, it's not going to any time soon. She may share more with him than she does with even Ruby and it's scary, but it's easy. And she doesn't let herself recoil because they're only pen pals and that's all they'll be till one of them gets tired or breaks their wrist, or something.

-/-

She tells him about Walsh in one of her letters, one of the ones she wrote with a little too much vodka in her system and not enough vigour to scratch it out in the morning, tells him about how much she loved him only to find out he wasn't who he said he was. Tells him about how she almost got engaged to a fucking con artist, and it shouldn't be as easy, but -

But, he only writes back with how he's no stranger to a broken heart. How the woman he loved left him after she decided he wasn't getting anywhere in his career. She wanted adventure, apparently, and Killian's career took a while to get started which didn't suit her.

_But I am no longer unemployed and paying my bills with my music, and you are (hopefully) no longer entangled with questionable men, so I guess we're doing pretty well, eh, Swan?_

Yeah, she'd say she's doing pretty well nowadays.

She forgets about the two weeks all up until she's winding down after a long night of paperwork - because the colder weather means people drink more and start more bar fights and Emma would sooner bury herself in the half inch of snow before she has to deal with more drunken men -, wine in hand and a comfy sweater on. It's almost ten at night and she's sure if she sits on her couch any longer, she'll sink right into it.

And then her phone rings beside her and she curses under her breath, wishing her couch would actually swallow her whole. She almost doesn't pick up, almost continues to hover her hand over the phone while she ignores it. But it's been days and days since those two weeks, and he did say for emergencies, and -

She clears her throat and picks up against every single cell in her body that screams at her to not to do it. "Hello?" She tries her hardest but it still comes out shaky.

The line's quiet for a few seconds and she wonders if maybe he butt-dialed her. She doesn't know if she'd be relieved about that or not. She slouches further into her couch cushions, and she knows it isn't a possibility to be eaten by furniture but a girl can hope, right? She clears her throat again and decides she'll wait three more seconds before hanging up.

Three, two, o- _"Swan? It's, uh, it's Killian."_

And fuck, she'd been imagining something like Colin Firth but this -

_"Swan, Gods, I'm sorry, are you still there?" He takes in a laboured breath and he sounds so worried and her hands are shaking, "I know I said only emergencies but Liam's in the hospital and I didn't know what to do. I'll just, I'll go, love, I -"_

She just wasn't expecting this. Any of it.

"Killian, wait, I'm here. It's okay. What...what happened?"

There's a pause before he answers. _"There was a car accident, Elsa and I are here but she's asleep and I can't,"_  his voice breaks a little and she swears her heart does, too.

"Hey, it's okay. It's what, 3 am, there?" Killian hums ( _hums_ - and she can hear him hum). She scrambles for something to say but comes up short because she's thinking about how his brother is the only family he has left. She blanks until she realises it's Killian and this shouldn't be any different than writing to him, right?

"Do you remember those ducklings I told you about? The ones Graham rescued?"

_"Aye, I do."_

It's weird that he can reply right away, that she doesn't have to wait two days to know that he's following her train of thought. (He always is, though, she never doubts it.) "One of them started following David around the animal shelter whenever he visited, so he and Mary Margaret adopted it. They named her Buttercup."

When he replies, she thinks she can hear a hint of a smile somewhere there. _"I see The Princess Bride craze is a town-wide epidemic."_

"Yeah, we play the movie in the town hall once every three months. It's real serious, you have to wear costumes or they don't let you enter."

 _"I know you're jesting, Swan, but I would most definitely move to anywhere that carries out traditions like that."_  There's a rustling as though he's sat down.  _"I'd look rather fetching in leather, I think."_

"I shouldn't have told you about that movie, I've created a monster."

There's a huff from the other end of the line that isn't a laugh but it's something - she prides herself for that.  _"Frankenstein would be proud of you, indeed."_

It's quiet on the line after and all she can hear is his breathing. She stares at the edge of her coffee table, the one bit that's chipped off at the corner - a hazard of letting David carry it up four flights of stairs. She stares at it hard enough that everything around it blurs into a mass of colours; all she can see is that one broken piece of wood, all she can hear is a man trying not to break.

 _"When I was a lad, they used to set up a market of sorts in our neighbourhood every Friday afternoon. Liam would never fail to take me after school, he'd buy fruit for the week knowing that our father wouldn't get out of the house any time soon, but he'd always sneak me a bar of chocolate, winking at me as though it was our little secret. I looked forward to that Friday. He never let anything stop that tradition, not when our father left and not when we had to move out of the house,"_  he pauses and she waits for him to continue. She always knew he was a good storyteller but she didn't actually consider he'd have the voice for it, too. _"He's- Liam, I-,"_  he exhales,  _"he's always been there for me, it- he can't stop now."_

He lets out a shuddering breath and she wishes in that split second that her hands were holding his instead of the phone. It's all she can do to hush him, to mumble words of comfort and remind him of how strong Liam is and how he'll tease Killian for his worries when he wakes up.

_"When did you get so optimistic, Swan?"_

It should strange to her that he knows her so well and yet, she's never spoken to him. That a voice on the other end of the phone can recall her traits so easily as though he's known her since she was a kid.

"Guess you're rubbing off on me."

He huffs again, that one that's almost happy, _"Can't say I'm opposed to that notion."_

She chuckles softly.

_"What?"_

"It's just," she curls her legs under her and leans back, "I always thought the elaborated speech was a British stereotype and not, you know, real."

 _"I was raised a proper gentleman, love, the speech comes with the territory. Besides, it's rather dashing, don't you think?"_ She scoffs.

She thinks about the whole Pride and Prejudice thing again and, God, Ruby's going to have a field day with this. "I  _think_ I wasn't expecting you to talk as...intricately as you write."

_"Nor was I expecting to become friends with such a brilliant lass, who understands me more than I'd ever believe, over penmanship of all things. But here we are, both pleasantly surprised."_

She takes a second to consider his words, the ones that her thoughts echo. Because letter writing is one thing, and meeting something of a kindred spirit through it is another.

(Is it really safer this way?)

 _"Swan, the doctor's here. I've got to go wake up Elsa,"_ his voice has that edge of worry to it, and there she goes, sinking into the cushions again.

"Yeah, okay."

_"I apologise for having this be our first conversation. I- thank you, lass. Truly."_

She doesn't actually know what to say when he sounds so sincere. "That's what friends are for." Way to be lame, Emma.

 _"Aye, and I'm sorry for keeping you up,"_ he continues like he's finding it hard to end the call. (Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on her part.) (Wishful, unsafe thinking.)

"Killian, it's alright," she cuts him off with a smile, "go be with your brother. I, uh, I'll talk to you soon?"

_"Aye, love, soon. Good night, Swan."_

"Good night, Killian."

He doesn't hang up right away and even when he does, she keeps the phone next to her ear.

It takes her a minute to put it down and to understand that she just spoke to Killian - Killian, the man who, up until now, she'd convinced herself wasn't actually a person. Of course, she knew he was real and all that, but it's another thing to actually view him as something tangible. Something she could hear, touch, lose.

When she's tucked under her duvet, already half asleep, it's only then that she thinks about how she still doesn't know what his laugh sounds like.

It's also in that moment that she realises how fucked she is.

-/-

She doesn't panic up until the next afternoon, halfway through eating her grilled cheese. She has to put down the food and breathe in a few times before she settles down.

But the thing is, Killian might just know her better than she thought because he doesn't mention the phone call or if he liked talking to her or anything of the sort. He sends her a letter a few days later as he usually does, filling it with the same amount of adjectives as he usually does. The only thing that even touches upon that phone call is his mention of his brother, and even then it's more of his tendency to cover up a situation with humour than anything else.

_My day has been faring well aside from the pain in my back from sitting on a damn plastic chair for hours. Hospitals need to reevaluate their general consensus on what they deem to be furniture, wouldn't you agree, Swan? I believe Liam agrees with me if his grumbling about the mattress is any indication. He's doing better, otherwise. Frankly, he's far more tolerable when he's loaded up on pain meds._

And she may sigh in relief and write back to him, may revel in the normalcy of their correspondence, but if she lets herself be honest, she already misses the sound of his voice.

-/-

It goes against everything she's been telling herself she won't do, but she's the one who texts him. She'll argue later that it wasn't a big deal, and that he just had to see Buttercup curled up on top of Mary Margaret's illustrated edition of The Princess Bride.

 _She's dreaming of finding her Westley_ , Emma captions.

She gets a reply a few hours later and if she thought her stomach flipped when she received one of his letters, well then, this is like an earthquake. She's so fucked.

_**It's a shame that this pirate is more partial to swans, else we'd be a fitting match.** _

And there goes her stomach again. What was that Ruby said about not reading into his words enough?

(It's definitely not safer this way.)

(Emma, despite her better judgement, refuses to acknowledge her worries and texts him back, instead.)

-/-

The letters reduce to twice a week, but they still remain their main form of conversation. The texting, that only happens during idle time or if one of them sees something that the other just has to see, too.

(He'd texted her a picture of Davy sprawled out in a puddle because that was apparently a very vital piece of information.)

(He's kind of a dork, but she knew that anyway.)

"Isn't it letter day today?" Ruby slumps down on Mary Margaret's recliner; it's her designated spot for movie nights. Unlike Emma's apartment, Mary Margaret and David's is furnished and decorated to a T. MM's put up dozens of photos and lights and even a few drawings from the kids she teaches. Well, Emma's got a few photo frames, and Killian's painting in her bedroom which -

"What the hell is letter day?"

"You know, the day you get a letter from your betrothed." Ruby says it casually but Emma hears the smirk. Mary Margaret must, too, because she snorts from her way back from the kitchen.

Emma rolls her eyes and makes space for Mary Margaret on the sofa, "First of all, there are no designated days. Second of all, have you been going through my mail again? You know we talked about that. And he's not my betrothed."

Ruby ignores everything except the last sentence, "Ha! Emma, you talk to him about every part of your day, he obviously likes you, you like him, it's -"

"Woah, I don't like him. Not  _like_ like him." Emma doesn't know anymore if that's true but it's the only thing she's willing to believe.

"How do you manage write actual letters with your elementary-school vocabulary?"

"Shut up," Emma lays her head on Mary Margaret's shoulder. "Besides, I tell you about my day, that doesn't mean we're dating."

"Emma, we're basically married."

Mary Margaret chuckles and Emma has to sit up to fix Ruby with a pointed gaze. She guesses it's a good thing that they're getting this conversation over with before Graham and David come back from their liquor run because she's not sure she can handle the Lucas-Humbert team up.

"Ruby, leave her alone," Mary Margaret says in her best mom voice. Emma opens her mouth to say her thanks but that's when her phone chimes in her lap. She flips it over as soon as she reads the sender's name but apparently it's not fast enough. "I'm sure she'd rather be texting Killian than listening to you anyway."

Ruby shrieks loud enough that Emma's sure one of the neighbours must be calling the station any second. She briefly considers the possibility of Lance breaking down the door before Ruby's dashed over and snatched her phone.

Emma should really consider putting a password on her phone. She should also consider getting new friends.

"Emma! This is so cute!"

Mary Margaret stands too, giggling and squeezing next to Ruby as she scrolls up. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Emma sees the twin grins on their faces and shrugs, "It's no big deal." Even though, yeah, it's kind of a big deal for someone who has made her standpoint on getting close to men very clear numerous times.

(She's only a bit relieved that none of them have been over in her apartment long enough to notice the tacked up photos on her fridge.)

"It is, too," Mary Margaret's grin softens, "You know we tease you, but we do want you to be happy. And this, this is wonderful, Emma."

"We're just texting Mary Margaret, it's something normal people do." Emma knows it's not something she does - texting a friend, who is a man, pictures of her daily life kind of goes against the whole _not getting attached_  thing she had going on. That thing stopped a while ago, though.

"You know I'm right, I can see it in -"

"MM, he has a dog! Look at it!" Ruby interrupts by shoving the phone right in Mary Margaret's face. Emma knows she should be thankful for that but it's more like a lose-lose situation.

The next five minutes are spent with Emma holing herself up in the kitchen after failing to get her phone back, while Ruby squeals from the living room (this whole open concept loft thing isn't exactly to her benefit right now). She knows she's grumbling like a teenager while Mary Margaret tries to reason with her, but she doesn't care. When Graham and David get back she seizes the opportunity to snatch her phone back and shove it in her pocket.

"What's gotten you so excited, Rubes?" Graham settles himself onto the single sofa.

"Well-," Ruby starts but Emma elbows her, effectively cutting her off.

"She just saw a shirtless picture of Chris Evans is all."

For a second Graham doesn't look like he's buying it but he relents, probably thinking better of the glare she sends him, and focuses on navigating the Netflix menu. At least one thing is going her way today.

Her phone chimes again in her pocket and Ruby chuckles. Emma huffs and takes her usual spot on the sofa.

"You know what, I think I'm gonna switch it up a bit today and sit with Emma," the smile Ruby sends her way is positively feral.

She ends up squeezed in between Ruby and the armrest that borders Graham's armchair. Which, with the mischievous looks the two of them keep shooting each other over her, is not good in any form.

She ends up shutting her phone off five minutes into the movie because Ruby keeps texting her dumb emoji hearts, making her unlock it only to "aww" in her ear. Make this a lose-lose-lose situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your response to this story makes me go "!!!" in my head (and also in my heart). thankyou for the support and be sure to drop me a comment on your thoughts about this chapter <3


	3. Chapter 3

“I think this is the time of year that New England decides it’s had enough of my shit and punishes me all at once.”

_“How do you figure that?”_

Even though she's been on the phone with him for the better part of twenty minutes, there's still some part of her brain that hasn't clicked into place yet. The worst part is that she can't seem to scramble around for an excuse; she’d gotten off work but hadn't felt like going home so she’d driven up to the highest peak of town and somehow found herself wanting to call Killian. She gave in pretty easily by her standards, self preservation be damned. Killian had been a bit shocked for the first few seconds but he'd recovered quickly, as she'd expected him to.

It should be scary to willingly jump into this sort of friendship because she’s somewhat accepted that she's attracted to him, but as she listens to the rustle of sheets over the phone, she can't help but feel calm. Guess her flight instinct doesn't think it's a big deal because he's in another continent.

Leave it to Emma Swan to have a crush on a man who lives an ocean away.

“It’s an annual thing actually. The worst one was three years ago; I crashed my car because there was a wolf in the middle of the road.”

Killian chuckles at the other end and it makes her smile. _“I didn’t know wolves were native to New England.”_

“Neither did I, until I met Ruby.” His laugh comes in full force this time and even with three thousand miles between them, it shakes her up a bit. She has to press herself back further into the seat of her car to keep from curling into herself and blushing like a teenager, because, yeah, his laugh is pretty great.

_“Miss Lucas seems like a delightful friend to have.”_

“I shouldn’t complain, she’s the only one who binge watches Masterchef with me without complaining,” Emma replies, picking at the worn leather of her steering wheel.

_“Really? I find it hard to imagine Mary Margaret wouldn’t want to join you.”_

“She gets competitive, God, it’s like she’s watching wrestling and not twenty people cooking. She could give Gordon Ramsey a run for his money.”

_“Good Lord, Swan, your mates are a mess of contradictions.”_

“Keeps things interesting,” she hums. “How's Liam doing?”

It's been weeks since the accident but there was physiotherapy involved, and God knows there must be emotional scarring somewhere there too. For both of the brothers. _“He's well, but he keeps boasting about how invincible he is now. The sod wouldn’t know humility if it slapped him in the face,”_ he chuckles. She’s come to know that Killian Jones hides his worries behind humour. It’s probably healthier than her hiding hers behind her fists to the punching bag. _“I’m sure he’s expecting some pretty grand Christmas gifts, too.”_

Emma groans, “Don’t remind me about Christmas shopping.”

_“Not a fan of the Yuletide, Swan?”_

“Not when I have to drive to Boston in my just-ready-to-burst tires to buy good gifts. I don’t even use the Bug that much, there’s no way these tires are spoilt already. Yet another seasonal gift from the universe,” she grumbles.

 _“Think of it as an adventure, love. Aren’t you constantly referring to Storybrooke as dull? This should be a welcome distraction,”_ he pipes up. _“Although, I would prefer it if you weren’t braving the elements and putting yourself directly in line of fire of the universe that you claim hates you.”_

She rolls her eyes even though he can’t see her, “You’re forgetting that I’m the sheriff.”

 _“Aye, but that doesn’t make you invincible,”_ he mumbles quietly. There’s worry in his voice that makes her heart beat a tattoo against her ribcage, and she really shouldn’t be this affected by a few words over a telephone conversation, and yet.

It’s his silence that has her own voice softening. “I’ll be fine. If that damn wolf didn’t kill me, I don’t think anything will,” she adds to lighten up the mood.

It works because he’s smiling when he replies, _“Now you sound like Liam. You two would make quite the pair, I’m sure.”_ It isn’t the first time he’s dropped a casual and indirect remark about them meeting, and it isn’t the first time she’s thought about the idea, either. But, it took her months to consider him as anything but a friend, she can’t go and ruin it now by suggesting they meet. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, doesn’t push her with his own suggestions either.

“Guess it’s a good thing, then. Imagine Christmas gift shopping for the both of us,” she laughs.

And she’s okay with not meeting him, not now and maybe not ever. But he responds in kind with a deep chuckle of his own, and she’s wondering if his cheeks tinge red with laughter like hers often do or if his eyes light up. She doesn’t even have a clear idea of what he looks like except for that one picture she’s seen.

She’s okay with not meeting him as long as she doesn’t think about it. And that is proving to be more difficult as each day passes.

-/-

As she suspected, the drive to Boston and back takes up a whole day and the gift wrapping and labelling takes up most of the next because she keeps getting distracted by Netflix. She’s seen The Grinch a thousand times before but that doesn’t mean she won’t want to watch it once more. Plus, it’s an easy thing to blame her bad gift-wrapping on; it’s not her fault the better half of her childhood consisted of empty spots under the tree, or sometimes even no trees at all. Christmas is more of a recent thing for her, the last nine years or so proving to her that the season of giving really does feel all magical when it’s spent with people you care a great deal about.

She might think winter is a bust, but Christmas usually manages to come through for her. Her routine is always the same; Christmas Eve and the next morning at her mother’s, brunch at the diner with Ruby, her grandmother, and the townsfolk that don’t have anywhere else to be, dinner at the Nolan’s with the whole gang, and then the night alone in her apartment, watching It’s A Wonderful Life with a mug of hot cocoa and cinnamon, trying not to think about how quickly the year has gone by.

It’s no different this year, all of it going by in a peppermint-scented blur until she finds herself digging into Mary Margaret’s traditional hot apple pie, racing David to see which one of them can scarf down their slice the fastest. It’s a good thing Ingrid went home before dessert, otherwise she’d chastise Emma for acting like a teenage boy.

“It’s like no one has fed either of you in the last month,” Graham says with a grin.

“You’re just bitter we didn’t let you join in, Humbert,” David says with his mouth half full with pie. It’s just the diversion Emma need to shove down the last bite of crust and throw her hands up in victory, a muffled yell stuck behind her still full mouth. David drops the fork with a clang onto the place, groaning good-naturedly in defeat.

“Doesn’t it feel like we never got any older than 18?” Mary Margaret shakes her head in amusement. The contests between Emma and David started in college, when the two of them and Mary Margaret had gone to BU together. Ruby had gone to New York, and Graham to New Jersey, but they’d all ended up back in Storybrooke like no time at all had passed between them.

“Yep,” Emma swallows before speaking, “even then I kicked David’s ass at everything.”

“You did _not_.” He picks at his crust and tosses a small piece to Buttercup who’s started quacking at his feet. Not many people can say they’ve trained their pet duck, but David Nolan’s one special snowflake.

“Children,” Ruby imitates Mary Margaret’s stern voice and it has Emma close to laughing, “if you don’t stop fighting, you won’t get to open your presents.”

“Sorry, MM, did you say older than 18 or older than 8?” Graham snickers. Emma gets up from her seat at the table to put her plates away in the kitchen, elbowing Graham on the way there, just for good measure.

Her and David wash and dry, laughing at Ruby’s overly dramatic rendition of All I Want For Christmas Is You as it carries from the living room, and soon enough they’re all sitting around the tree like children - Graham actually bouncing up and down in his seat excitedly. The people of Storybrooke wouldn’t exactly feel safe if they saw their town’s task force giggling over cups of cocoa and waiting to tear open red and green wrapping paper. Crimefighters of the century, really.

Emma’s never really considered herself a good gift-giver, she doesn’t do handcrafted sentimental gifts like Mary Margaret or well thought out ones like Graham, but her friends smile and hug her regardless so she guesses it can’t really be that bad. She tries not to compare her gifts to everyone else’s and she’s gotten pretty good at it.

Until she finds herself staring at the piece of thick paper in her hand, the letters on it staring right back at her. It was an envelope in the corner of the pile with her name on it, and Emma had guessed a coupon of to the firing range or a free pass to an amusement park, literally anything except the airline ticket in her hands.

Two-way, from Logan International to Heathrow.

A plane ticket to fucking London. Where Killian Jones lives.

She wants to laugh, make a joke about how subtlety is not their best trait, but there’s the matter of her breath being stuck in her lungs and her words being stuck in her throat, and can you have a panic attack on Christmas without it being a cause for town-wide concern? Emma sucks in a heavy breath and releases it shakily.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret soothes, rubbing her shoulder.

“I’m fine, just…,” she trails into silence, once again too busy staring at the ticket.

“We all pooled together,” she sees Mary Margaret shrug from the corner of her eye, “you have always wanted to see the world and we thought London would be a good place to start.”

She looks up at her friend, the intention so clear in her eyes and in everyone’s else’s silence, but Emma doesn’t have it in her to fight, to deny, to argue about something that they’ve so thoughtfully gotten for her.

So she smiles shakily and hugs them all tightly in turn, making a mental note to revise this whole idea when she’s not too hazy with apple pie and cinnamon scented candles.

-/-

She doesn’t mention it to Killian when he calls that night.

Instead, she tells him about her pie eating contest ( _“Of course you won, Swan, I’d never doubt you for a minute.”_ ) and how much she can’t stand Christmas songs (he responds by singing Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, and if she wasn’t attracted to him already, she’d melt into a puddle at the sound of his singing voice). He tells her of dinner with Elsa and Liam and how he’s had enough eggnog to put him into a blissful coma for the next two weeks.

_“But, alas, my boss would not share my sentiments on the matter.”_

“I can imagine. You working on something right now?”

 _“Aye, I’m expected to prep for a lengthy custody battle come Monday morning. Knee deep in papers and Davy’s saliva as we speak,”_ he sighs.

“So much for making the yuletide gay,” Emma deadpans.

_“Ah, it isn’t too bad when I’ve got you to give me company. Speaking of, Happy Christmas, Emma.”_

She has to bite her bottom lip from smiling too hard. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

(She gets a postcard from him in the mail the next day. It's one of those cheesy family holiday cards but instead of his family on it, it's a picture of Davy in felt antlers and a collar studded with bells, the writing at the back, in Killian’s perfect cursive, reading _Wish you were here. - Davy (but mostly, Killian)._ )

-/-

“You know I can’t go, right?”

“What do you mean you can’t go?”

Emma sighs and pulls her beanie down a little tighter over her ears to battle against the light snowfall. She should’ve expected resistance from Mary Margaret. Ruby thinks her life is a novel - she can deal with that by waving it away as fiction - but Mary Margaret, poor sweet Mary Margaret, thinks it’s some kind of fairytale. She’d sway that away as fiction, too, if Mary Margaret wasn’t such a stone hard believer of children’s stories; her friend found her Prince Charming in David and now believes that the world is nothing short of being inhabited by fairies and curses that can be broken with true love’s kisses.

Her boots crunch in time with Mary Margaret’s as they both trudge from the station to the diner. They’d agreed on lunch the day before, and it’s been a few days since Christmas, New Year’s peeking right around the corner, so she knows she has to get this conversation over with the sooner the better.

“I can’t just,” Emma shakes her head at the mere idea of it, “get up and go to Europe like that. Life doesn’t work that way.”

She squints through the cold to see Mary Margaret furrowing her eyebrows, probably choosing her best offense tactic to hit Emma with. “Okay.”

“Wait, what?” Emma stops walking and faces her fully, “Okay? No “you need to have hope” or “you should break those walls down before you end up sad and alone” speech?”

“I’ve never said you’re going to end up alone,” she huffs and it releases a little puff of white into the air. “You’re a grown woman, Emma, you can do what you want. But, I know you like him and I also know you’re scared. We just wanted to give you a little push. What you do next is up to you.”

Emma stares at her friend in disbelief, wanting to thrash out because of her meddling but also not being able to find any coherent reason to get angry after her little speech. Emma knows better than anyone else that her walls are what keeps the bad parts out, but that she needs to lower them to let the good parts in, too. It's something Storybrooke taught her without her even knowing, and she guesses it's what Mary Margaret’s trying to remind her of, too.

“Don't overthink it, do what you're sure will make you happy,” Mary Margaret squeezes Emma’s arm and she's wearing too many layers to feel it all the way to her skin, but she does feel the sentiment all the same.

“I’ll consider it,” she mumbles, scrunching up her too-cold nose.

It’s good enough for Mary Margaret, apparently, and she lets the subject drop as they walk to Granny’s.

-/-

Emma considers it. She considers it for hours and hours; considers it while she’s out with Ruby for breakfast, while she’s restocking her groceries, filling out paperwork at the station, staring too hard at the polaroids on her fridge, in between glasses of champagne at Granny’s annual New Year’s party, in between Killian’s slurred New Year’s wish to her over the phone.

Because he stayed up till 5am just so that he could call her up and wish her on the 1st of January. And it makes her wish, more than anything, that it was his arms around her waist when the fireworks start. It’s a lonely thought, sure, but it’s one that cements the decision for her.

-/-

“What do I tell Killian? Should I just text him a “hey, going to be in your area, can I drop by?”” Emma’s balls up her jackets and shoves them into her suitcase only to have Mary Margaret take them out and fold them neatly, patting them down again. “It’s two weeks into January, I can’t tell him I’ve known since Christmas and not told him this whole time.”

“Then don’t tell him,” Ruby shrugs with a grin, handing Emma a few pairs of scarves from her dresser.

“What do you mean?”

“Surprise him, it’ll be cute and romantic. You know where he lives, you can just show up and he’ll be knocked off his feet and tell you he loves you right there.”

Emma glares at Ruby and snatches another scarf out of her grasp. “He doesn’t love me. And it won’t be romantic, it’ll be creepy. He probably won’t even recognise me and then he’ll call the cops and one of you will have to fly to London to bail me out of British jail.”

Ruby scoffs, “You say British jail like it’s any different than all the other jails. Plus, yeah, he totally loves you.”

Emma hears the word _love_ and her mind translates it to _run_. Because attachment is a gateway to heartache, and Emma Swan is a magnet for that. She wrings the shirt in her hands until it’s too wrinkled to identify, her fingers gripping the fabric hard enough that they turn white.

“Hey,” Ruby snaps and her eyes shift back to the brunette, “stop doing that. Stop thinking that this is going to blow up in your face because it’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Ruby walks over and carefully pries the shirt out of her hands, “I’m the smartest one out of all of us, trust me on this.”

Emma can’t help but scoff and Ruby grins in response, tossing the shirt into Emma’s suitcase. Mary Margaret sighs as she picks up the shirt, and Emma makes a mental note to get the woman a kickass souvenir.

-/-

David drives her to Logan International and she panics about three times in the car, asking David to turn around. Apparently, he has stern instructions from Mary Margaret to do exactly not that even though he doesn’t like the idea of letting her go to another continent to meet a man he’s never spoken to. His grumbling passes the time and Emma rolls her eyes at him before she gives him a long hug goodbye with a promise to text him constantly, but it doesn’t do much to ease the churning in her gut.

She snaps at two flight attendants and barely touches her food. It’s a 12 hour flight, the longest she’s been on, with a 5 hour stop in Ireland to boot. She nearly doesn’t get on the plane at Dublin International but after a phone conversation with Ingrid (and Mary Margaret who’d apparently been over for tea - maybe it isn’t Ruby that her mother gets her information from, after all) and a tumbler of whiskey, she’s on her way to Heathrow.

She and Ruby had booked a hotel a week ago, one that was only a few tube stops and a short walk away from Killian’s apartment. By the time she reaches her hotel, she's tired and grumbling to herself about how bad of an idea all of this is. It's early afternoon on a Friday and about the time she wakes up for work, but with the grime of travel and the tension in her shoulders, she hops into the shower hoping to go to sleep right after.

Her phone chimes as she curls up in her duvet. It's the view from Killian’s office window, one she knows because he's sent her the same angle of it once before. Except this time it's to capture a formation of clouds that he insists looks like a swan. She extracts herself from the mattress to peek out through the curtains at the sky, spotting the exact same blob of white amidst the blue, even though it should be virtually undetectable from the rest of the mass of white in the sky.

And yeah, it's insane that she's doing this, but for a moment the panic fades away and gives way to a little bit of surreal hope. She clings to that feeling as she sets her alarm and drifts to sleep.

-/-

By now, Emma knows his exact routine down to the minute because he has a penchant for being on time and discussing his oddly pristine schedule. ( _Such_ a dork.) So, by the time she’s darted in the apartment building thanks to the last person leaving the door slightly open and checked the mailboxes for his apartment number, she knows he must be lounging around.

Emma’s mind has always worked logically, she's better at knowing the facts. Fact number one: Killian Jones gets home at around 6pm, give or take a few minutes if there's too large of a crowd at the Underground stations. Fact number two: he likes rum, which is why she's gripping a bottle of it in her hands. Fact number three: even though she knows through their constant interactions that her and Killian are close friends, she has no possible method of predicting how he’ll react to seeing her. Fact number four: she is terrified.

She knocks anyway, running a cold hand through her tangled curls. She hears the scuttle of paws across the hardwood and two loud barks before she hears a muffled and too familiar voice say, “Down, boy.” It's enough to make her already rapid heartbeat increase to the point where she's sure the organ is going to just burst out of her chest.

She could run right now, she could duck behind edged out corner of the narrow staircase and let him think it was some kind of prank being played on him; she thinks she should probably do either of that because this is a _really_ shitty idea. Her legs refuse to comply, though, and it's as she's trying to get her breathing back to normal that the door flies open.

Killian Jones, she'd learnt over the last few months, was many things. He was intelligent, creative, witty, and sometimes too arrogant for his own good. He stands there with disheveled dark hair, a healthy amount of scruff over his jaw and cheeks, and bright blue eyes right under his scrunched up brows; he's about a head taller than her, his lean frame something she can't help but run her eyes over. And she learns in that moment that her pen pal is drop dead gorgeous. That ridiculous photo online does not do him any justice at all.

“Emma?” Neither do the phone lines because his voice is clearer and deeper, though tinged with a heavy dose of confusion.

Emma, for her part, doesn't have any idea how to react. She hasn't exactly thought this through after the knocking on his door thing, so she does the only thing she can think of in the moment and lamely lift her hands up and weakly say, “Surprise?” She'll blame that one on Ruby later.

He's just standing there staring at her and _fuck_ , this was a _really, really_ shitty idea and maybe if she backs out slowly, he won't get mad at her for invading his personal space. Maybe he never wanted to meet at all, maybe he doesn't even _like_ her, only keeps up with the letters and the texts because it's easier to be friends with her when she's not there. Maybe, he-

His arms wrap around her mid-thought, squeezing her into his chest and she buries her freezing nose into his neck, automatically pressing herself as close as she can with the bottle still in her hands. His fingers are in her hair and she'd never have guessed that she'd be so physically at ease with a man she's never met before.

Killian releases her but keeps his hands on her arms, eyes darting over her face as his smile broadens.

“Hi,” she smiles.

“Hi, love,” he says, a laugh bubbling out of him. Her stomach flips at the sound, but she pays it little mind when she’s trying to catalogue his every little detail into her mind.

It’s Davy that interrupts the moment, nosing at Killian’s leg and whining, his dark fur an exact match with Killian’s hair.

“Ah, right, how can I forget? This is Davy. Davy, the stunning Emma Swan.” His voice pitches higher at the end, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying.

Emma’s sure she blushes a little at his words, at the way his eyes never leave hers even when he steps back to let the dog stand in between them, at the way he can’t seem to stop smiling. Neither can she, really. She bends down and lets Davy sniff her hand; he’s bigger than she imagined, but his eyes are playful and he only gives her the warning of licking her hand before he’s nuzzled up into her face, licking her cheek.

She laughs as she pushes his face away, standing up. She ruffles his fur while he barks at her, happily wagging his tail.

“I seem to have forgotten my manners, do come in, Swan,” he dramatically swoops a hand to gesture for her to enter. He leads her to the kitchen and after taking her coat, ushers her to sit on the stool of the little island, all the while beaming. Killian takes the bottle from her hands and pours them both a finger of rum, clinking their glasses together before he speaks, “Not that I’m not thrilled, but what brings you across the pond, love?”

She laughs a bit awkwardly, even by her standards. She’s a sheriff for God’s sake, she should know how to handle herself in the face of a nerve-wracking situation. She looks up at him from her glass and she thinks maybe there is not protocol when it comes to the face of one Killian Jones. “Would you believe it was a Christmas gift from my friends?”

“Remind me to send them all gift baskets in gratitude,” he gulps down the liquid in his glass. “When did you land?”

“Uh, this morning.”

He stops what she assumes was his trek to the fridge to turn back and furrow his brows at her. “Wait, you mean to tell me that when I sent you that photo -”

“That I was in my hotel room looking at the same clouds, yep.” She pops the ‘p’ for emphasis, clamping down on her bottom lip with her teeth after.

“Good Gods, love,” he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more, twin dimples denting his cheeks. It’s surreal, to be sitting in his kitchen. To be able to see and touch the man she’s spent months and months writing to and getting to know. She’d ask him to pinch her but she doesn’t want to wake up if this is a dream.

He walks up over to her slowly and reaches out to twirl a curl around his fingers. Fucking surreal. He shakes his head with a smile like he's had just the same thought.

“This is strange,” he says and slips into the stool next to hers, fingers still playing with her hair.

“Yeah, it is.”

“But a good strange.”

She smirks, “This is the first time I’ve heard you without the insane vocabulary. Aren't you, I don't know, _vexed_?”

He laughs and she feels the puff of warm air on her face, warming her up even further. “Honestly, Swan, I'll be whatever you want me to be as long you assure me that I've not dreamt you up.”

She brings a hand up to tentatively skim over his own fingers that are by her jaw. “You haven’t dreamt me up,” she says quietly. Ruby has spent years and years waxing poetic about romance novels and sparks between characters and just _knowing_ , and Emma has spent the same amount of time rebutting her ridiculous notions. But this - the way Killian’s smile softens, the way he inches just that much closer to her, the way she can feel every part of skin burning even though he hasn’t even touched it yet. This is a moment, if she’s ever seen one. And she’ll never admit it to Ruby, but she guesses this is how Elizabeth must have felt when Darcy professed his love for her.

There’s this way that he lifts up the left part of his mouth in a lopsided smile, and even though Emma’s only been in his presence for give or take fifteen minutes, she’s decided it’s one of her favourite things about him.

He inches closer towards her and his eyes undoubtedly dart to her lips. She follows his movements until she can feel his breath fan over her lips. And then Davy barks and they’re both jolting back like they never meant to get that close in the first place. Killian clears his throat and mutters something about ordering supper, nodding more to himself than to her once he says it.

Davy settles his head in her lap comfortably while she watches Killian move around the kitchen as he makes coffee, and tells him about her disaster of a flight. He looks back and smiles at her every time she pauses, as if to encourage her to go on. She watches his smile form constantly, finding herself trying to memorise it.

Fact number five: she wants to kiss Killian Jones.

Fact number six: it doesn’t terrify her as much as it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you were waiting for this point of the story, so I hope it didn't disappoint. I've read about every comment on this story at least twelve times each, thankyou for your kind words and be sure to let me know what you think of this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

He insists on dropping her back to her hotel after they eat, texting her throughout the night and asking her if she'd have late breakfast with him next morning. That's how she finds herself entering his apartment again, this time in daylight. This time with only minimum nervousness.

She recognizes bits and pieces of Killian’s apartment from some of the pictures he’s sent her; she can make out the carpet in the living room, the kitchen countertop, the frames in the hallway, his coffee table. But what really throws her off is seeing Killian interact with his surroundings. It’s his apartment and everything in it belongs to him, but to see him clear out the stack of papers off the coffee table or to adjust the tassels of the rug as he walks by, feels foreign. She’s seen this place in snapshots, right up to the dog that lays lounging in the bit of light filtering through the curtains, but Killian Jones was not a part of any of those.

“Something the matter, Swan?” He places their second round of coffee on the table and throws himself backwards onto the couch as he watches her with interest.

She shakes her head and sits down next to him, “Still trying to wrap my head around this.”

He bends over to the table to pick up his mug and cradle it in his hands. “At least you'd been aware of your visit, you're the last person I’d expected to be behind my front door.”

“Sorry about barging in on you like this.” Despite his assurances and his obviously excited plan making over breakfast of the landmarks he’ll take her to see now that he’s closed his last case, she still feels like she's intruding.

“Well, you did interrupt my plans for binge watching the last season of Hannibal,” he picks up the other mug and presses it into her hands with a dramatic sigh, “but I suppose I could parade around London with you instead.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” she smiles into her coffee, the tension easing off her shoulders a little at his jab.

“I am nothing if not a gentleman, Swan.”

-/-

Emma’s never been good with physical affection. She figures it’s natural for someone who grew up as emotionally isolated as she did, as morbid as it sounds; it took years of coaxing from Ingrid and Ruby for her to get used to the idea of a simple arm over her shoulder. She’s still wary, of course, because who would want a stranger in their personal space to begin with? It’s grounds for murder. She’s a sheriff, she would know.

But from his greeting hug, to the way he leads her with his palm ghosting over her back and the way he tugs at her collar when adjusting her scarf, Killian doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy that minds casual touches one bit. He seems to be doing it unconsciously and yet every time he gets close enough for her to feel his body heat, there’s a little zing of anticipation that goes through her. It’s ridiculous, she’s a grown woman, she shouldn’t feel like this over some man that she met in the most periodically dramatic way possible. And yet-

Killian grabs her hand and tugs her as he begins to cross the busy road. She should feel offended, really, that he doesn’t think she could manage something so simple on her own, but somehow she can tell that’s now how he means it.

He doesn’t let go of her hand until they reach Trafalgar Square, too busy filling her mind with trivia about the city to even realize. She misses the warmth immediately. But then he’s smiling at her, dimples denting his cheeks and crow’s feet forming at the corners of his eyes and the warmth is back again.

Ridiculous.

“Would the Lady Swan care for a walk around the Square?” He tilts his head, eyes trained on hers.

She shrugs, trying to get a grip on her feelings, “You’ve already brought me here, I don’t really have a choice.”

He grins at her, stepping into her space. “Ah, you’ve discovered my nefarious scheme.”

“Isn’t Westley supposed to be the good guy?”

“Even good people have a penchant to do bad things, Swan,” he steps closer still, an eyebrow shooting up in suggestion.

“And the lawyer in you speaks.” She’s surprised her voice is coming out so even with how hard her heart is beating.

“Say whatever you’d like, love, but I just heard you admit that I am, indeed, the Dread Pirate Roberts,” he lifts a hand and in a move she wouldn’t expect in a hundred years, boops her nose. “My work here is done.” She rolls her eyes good naturedly before she brushes past him.

They spend a few minutes walking around until Emma makes a beeline towards The National Gallery, walking up a few of the steps as Killian falls in beside her, telling her about the history of the building. At this point, she isn’t even surprised that he’s got it memorised. But, as he speaks of the press ridiculing the building in the early 1800’s because of its size, she recognizes that they haven’t had a conversation in person that’s en par with the ones they’ve had on paper. He abruptly stops talking when she seizes her ascent and turns towards him, and that’s when she notices him scratch behind his ear. A nervous tic, no doubt about it.

“Sorry, lass, I tend to get rather sucked into minute details about history.”

She forgets, sometimes, because of his flowery words and his unbelievably perfect skills when it comes to _everything_ , that he’s got just as many insecurities as she does. And it’s one thing for him to cover it up in his letters with bravado, to cloak it with a smirk and a flirting line in person - but it’s another thing when she sees that little crack in his facade.

The one he covers up immediately with a half grin and a playful wiggling of his eyebrows. “I’m sure your interests stray far from details that are _minute_.”

She would roll her eyes, but she’s too busy watching the way his jaw tics just the slightest when she doesn’t respond to his joke that is honestly unfit for a public place like this one. She sits down on the stair instead, and catches the sleeve of Killian’s jacket in her fingers to pull him down next to her. He complies easily enough, but she can feel his eyes trained on her as she looks straight ahead.

If she inches a little to the left, her knee would knock into his. It’s still weird, and she suddenly gets it - gets why he’s hesitating from having any substantial discussion with her, because she’s doing exactly the same thing. Apart from the ease with which his fingers reach out for hers occasionally, she realizes he’s been letting her take the lead here. She’s the one that’s been joking around, the one who’s offered nothing more about why she actually flew across the Atlantic, the one that initiated the almost kiss.

“Why is this your favourite spot?” She turns her head to face him, and he is, in fact, watching her with a questioning gaze.

“I’m sorry?”

“You told me this was your favourite place to come and sit. I get that it’s near an art gallery but there’s more to it than that.”

His eyes shift from her face to his hands in his lap and then ahead at the crowd, a half smile on his lips. It takes him a few seconds to answer. “In all honesty, my favourite spot would be on my boat out at sea. But, aye, this would be the one on land that I’m partial to. There’s a certain kind of calmness in this chaos, and in a city so large where I’ve got only a handful of people to call my own, something about this - well, at the risk of sounding like a sad git, something about being here makes me feel less lonely.”

Despite his dejected confession, she can’t help but feel a smile form on her lips. She’s had conversations like these with him over the phone, but it’s something completely new in person.

For one, he can turn towards her and respond with an inviting smile of his own.

She thinks she could get used to sitting beside him, letting her eyes rove over his features as the wind tinges his cheeks red and ruffles his hair in every direction. The thoughts swim to the forefront of her mind before she pushes them back, not wanting to give herself any kind of false hope. He does, after all, still live on another continent.

Killian looks like he’s about to say something when his phone starts ringing. He shoots her an apologetic look and then shuffles through his coat pockets. He has to take off one of his gloves with his teeth before he can slide his finger across the screen to answer. “Hello,” he mumbles, the leather glove still clenched between his teeth.

She hears a faint voice from the other end of the line, but frankly, she’s too busy focusing on the way he runs his tongue along his lower lip after dropping the glove into his hand.

“Yes, I know I was supposed to- No, Liam, I can’t just- What do you mean- I think she’d rather not spend her time with the likes of you, you idiot,” he huffs exasperatedly.

She turns away to watch the crowd, giving him some privacy, but she’s still wearing a half smile of amusement at the way he bickers with his brother.

He sighs again from beside her, one that deflates his whole body rather obviously. “Swan,” she turns to him as he says her name, the phone still pressed against his ear. “Liam would like to know if you’d like to join them for lunch. I must remind you that you are under no obligation to say yes and-,” he stops only to groan and return to the conversation with his brother, “you git, would you stop babbling in my ear. Bloody hell, I’ll call you back.”

Emma can’t help but smirk at the way he cuts the call and runs a hand through his hair.

“I already told him last night that you’d arrived and that I wouldn’t make it to their place for lunch but apparently, my fool of a brother did not comprehend that the first time.”

Friday afternoons were for his brother and brother’s girlfriend; for the only family he had left. And now that she’s here, Killian’s decided to spend his time with her instead. It shouldn’t feel like such a big thing, and yet it kind of does. “We should go.”

“Pardon, love?”

“To your brother’s. For lunch.”

“Are you sure? Because, the last thing that I would want is to make you uncomfortable.”

She hesitates only for a second before nodding. “I’m sure.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a big thing, but the way that Killian’s grin broadens and the way he pulls her up with her hand in his - it kind of does.

-/-

If she thought meeting Killian was surreal, meeting his brother is another thing altogether. At least with Killian, she’d been aware that he knew about her opinions, her habits, her likes and dislikes. But, she’s never spoken to Liam Jones, and yet he tops her cocoa with a sprinkle of cinnamon after their lunch, a knowing smile on his lips. He asks her about Storybrooke, and tells her about how he and Elsa have been to the States a few times to visit Elsa’s sister in New York, where she lives with her husband.

Emma can only sit there, mumble monosyllabic answers and nod appropriately because for all that Killian’s told her of Liam Jones, he’s definitely told Liam tenfold about her. Which-

Emma’s not complaining, but- the most intricate detail she’s told her friends about Killian is how the man likes to read. Which, compared to the way Liam asks her about “that pet duck I’ve heard so much about” is pretty out of the blue. Maybe Emma should feel more uncomfortable but something about the man’s kind eyes and hearty laugh has her at ease, unconsciously cozying herself on the couch, her fourth shortbread biscuit in between her fingers.

“He’s not bothering you is he, love?” Killian saunters in with Davy in tow, excited to have been brought along for the visit.

“Oi, don’t get jealous, Killian. She’s allowed to spend time with me, too,” Liam hollers at him as he takes a seat next to Emma. “In fact, I think she prefers my company more, what do you say, lass?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Killian stage whispers to her. Emma can only laugh in response to being stuck between the Jones brothers and their disheveled hair and twin grins.

“Boys, behave,” Elsa chimes in as she enters the living room, wearing a teasing smile. “I’m sorry, Emma, the both of them are nuisances, can’t take them anywhere without them embarrassing me.” She squeezes in next to Liam and he drapes an arm around her.

“Aye, but you love us anyway,” Liam laughs, planting a kiss on her temple.

“That I do.”

Killian groans before the two of them can move in any closer to each other, “Would you two please refrain from scarring us and the dog?”

“Oh, sod off,” is all Liam says before he kisses Elsa, more to annoy Killian than anything, she guesses.

He groans even louder and buries his face in Davy’s fur, who's plopped himself half on Killian’s lap and half in the space between the both of them, his paw stretching to rest against Emma’s thigh. She sustains another laugh, watches as Killian turns towards her, resting his cheek on Davy’s back.

He looks so much younger all of a sudden. She thinks maybe it's because she has his older brother to compare him to now, but there's a soft smile on his lips that makes his eyes twinkle and, God, how did she even get here?

She wonders if maybe she looks younger these days, too. Ingrid tells her continuously, in an effort to make her be more cheerful, that smiling knocks 5 years off a person; and with the way she's been since her and Killian have gotten to know each other (and even more so since she's been in his presence), well-

Emma doesn't have a wealth of pictures from her childhood, but she remembers the feeling of lightness she had once she'd finally settled down at Ingrid’s. Killian scrunches up his nose in mock disgust when Elsa giggles, and she recognises that weightlessness in her chest immediately.

Despite their (Killian’s) plan to walk around central London in the evening, they spend their time playing Scrabble with Liam and Elsa, and Emma grows increasingly fond of Killian’s little family, especially when Elsa steals an extra letter from the bag when she’s sure Liam isn’t looking, and when Liam calls bluff on every single word Killian puts down, even if they’re common ones. She spends a solid ten minutes arguing against Liam’s use of a _u_ in _behavior_ , earning him a 34 instead of a 17. Liam, for his part, spends ten more minutes arguing right back, and is this close to pulling up the _Comparison of American and British English_ Wikipedia page on his phone until Elsa chastises him for being so stubborn.

Killian nudges her with his elbow as she snickers, whispering, “I told you that you two would get along, Swan,” his breath tickling the side of her face. “Stubborn as mules, the both of you.”

His words hold no fire; in fact, they’re laced with a fondness. Emma hums in reply, even though she’s a bit thrown off by how easily he groups her in with the man who, for most of his life, was his whole world.

(Then again, she just as easily places Killian right next to the people she cares most about.)

(She’d much rather not dwell on the significance of either of those things.)

-/-

“I do hope you weren’t too bored,” Killian says as he tugs at Davy’s leash for a third time to get the dog to keep up with their pace instead of stopping to inspect cracks in the sidewalk.

Emma tugs the collar of her coat a little higher, “It was really nice, thanks for letting me come with.”

“I do believe you were the one that dragged me there but you’re welcome,” she sees him wink at her under the hazy light of the streetlamp.

“He’s pretty great,” she says after a stretch of comfortable silence between them. “Liam, he’s a lot like you said he was, I can see why- that day-,” she stops short, shaking her head and trying not to dwell on the man’s car crash, on how small Killian had sounded over the phone, on the glimpse she’d seen of the prominent scar that ran down Liam’s forearm to stop just above his wrist, on how she’s only just met him but she suddenly feels a gaping sadness at the thought of Killian not having him around.

“Aye,” he doesn’t sound as small as he did but there’s lingering sadness in his voice. And now she feels like an idiot for bringing it up after such a blissful evening.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t apologise, Emma,” he shakes his head vehemently, and she thinks if his hands weren’t occupied, he might be reaching to comfort her with his touch. “Honestly, if I didn’t have you around,” he breathes out heavily, “I don’t think I’d be half as put together in its duration as I was.”

She stares at the way his throat works down a swallow. “I didn't do anything.”

He shakes his head again, smiles just enough for his dimples to flash, “You should stop doubting your impact on people, love. If you’d allow me, I’d say you were a bloody hero.”

Her mind reels at his confession, and she’s suddenly all too aware of the very little space between them as they turn the corner of his street. She’s caught between thinking of how some few months after she’d started writing to Killian, David had off-handedly mentioned how nice it was to see her smile more freely and the way she’s unconsciously loosened the reigns around her heart.

If anyone’s the bloody hero, it’s him.

She doesn’t tell him that, though - just settles on smiling at him as he unlocks the apartment door, hoping he understands in one way or another, just how much he means to her.

-/-

Emma likes to think she has a pretty good system; likes to think that the three piles of chronologically ordered letters in her top nightstand drawer are a testament to her wonderful organisation capabilities. She also likes to think that Killian Jones is a show-off.

The man has a fucking file organiser. The one’s with colour coded dividers, breaking off each envelope by month. And don’t forget that each letter is put into its own plastic sleeve, for what she assumes are preservation purposes, before they’re put into the designated envelope (which is decorated with a neat group of postage stamps that have been carefully taken off her letters and glued on here). She can only conclude that the man is obsessed with efficiency. Although, she wonders just how efficient it is to make the whole system in the first place when he’s already got such a demanding job. They must share the whole bad work ethic thing, then.

She isn’t technically supposed to be lurking around the desk in his room, but she’d needed to use the bathroom and it was connected to his bedroom, so she couldn’t really help herself when she was drawn to the colourful file organiser that was marked by a simple drawing of a swan on a post-it. (Her eyes also catch on to the series of maps taped to the walls, the endless notes and novels that litter his shelves, even the little ship in a bottle that sits polished on his dresser.) The more she dives into the life of Killian Jones, the more she thinks of just how she’s going to go back to her own. Now that she’s seen him and hugged him and let his presence become the norm in just a few days, she isn’t sure how long it’ll be before Storybrooke starts to seem dull in comparison. It’s a ridiculous thought, considering the town is the one place she’s ever felt safe, at _home_ \- especially after the amount of houses and towns and states she’s jumped all her life.

She touches the post-it reverently, catching the corner of it between her thumb and forefinger, following the delicate pen lines of the drawing. There were a few paintings of his at Liam’s place, some signed with his initials and others that Elsa pointed out - all full of some kind of care and tenderness that she’s come to identify with the man himself.

Emma isn’t quite sure if coming here was the best or the worst decision she’s ever made. She is sure, though, that leaving will be the hardest one.

“Snooping around, are you?” Killian says softly, but his voice still startles her. He’s standing in the doorway, running a hand through his hair, and she’s certain the tips of his ears are tinging an adorable shade of red. He gestures vaguely, a bit nervously, at the organiser, “It’s a tad...comprehensive.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is anal.” She doesn’t let the uninviting thoughts of the inevitable keep her from teasing him.

“It comes with the job, Swan, I can’t exactly be a messy lawyer,” he stalks closer to her, eyes fixing on the drawing she’s still thumbing at.

She scoffs. “I see right through your excuses, Killian Jones.”

His eyes snap back to hers as he snickers. “Never can pull one over you, darling. Although, I’m rather perceptive, too, and I’m certain at least some of this meticulousness flatters you.” He’s teasing her right back, but his words ring true.

“I’m actually kind of pissed because they make my drawer of letters look sloppy,” she admits instead.

“Ah, Swan, it’s not a competition.”

She thinks about his painting in her bedroom and the polaroids on her fridge, thinks that if it was a competition of displaying fondness, she just might win.

“Whatever,” she mumbles, letting him clasp her hand in his. He runs his thumb along her knuckles and then taps them once, blue eyes glinting under the dull light of the room.

She looks away from him back to the desk and that's when her eyes catch the little box next to it, a small outline of a swan decorating the bottom left side of the light blue paper. She slips her hand out of his and slowly reaches for the box, turning it around a few times in her palm before she asks, “What’s this?”

He doesn't speak right away, and she assumes he doesn't want to tell her but when she looks up at him he looks more like he's struggling for words. He moves an inch closer, “That was- uh- it was meant to be your Christmas gift.”

She scrunches her brows together. He never sent it and that can only mean he had a change of heart about getting her something. But, the fact that he had even thought of her while buying his gifts was-

Well, she'd thought about buying him something while she was in Boston but she wasn't exactly willing to deal with any of those thoughts head first then.

She picks at the ribbon around it and tugs to let it fall loose, opening the box to a necklace; a pendant of what she could identify as a North Star hanging from a thin silver chain.

“You bought this for me?”

“Aye,” he says a bit sheepishly. “I don't mean for you to take this the wrong way but I didn't send it to you because I feared it would drive you away somehow. I presumed I’d be able to find a way and time to get it to you eventually.”

The edges of the pendant reflect the light, almost making it seem like it’s shining. He's right; if she'd seen this in her mailbox during Christmas time, she'd have shut herself away from him - even though she'd been aware of how she'd felt for him, she wouldn't have known how to handle a gesture like this from him. Now, though -

Now, she sees his nervousness in the way his fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and all she feels is a flood of warmth.

“Thank you, Killian.” She continues when he meets her eyes, “Would it be okay if I kept it?”

He half smiles, and his hand finds its resting place on top of hers once again, “Of course, Emma, it's yours.”

Killian watches her for a long stretch of time that she can only determine in the unit of the amount of times his eyes flit from one of hers to the other, the amount of times her heart feels like it’s actually being tugged.

“Come on, love, it’s getting late,” he whispers, pulling her hand closer to his chest, “I’ll walk you back.”

She nods hesitantly after a beat, wondering if it would be appropriate to ask him to walk her all the way back to Maine and then stay.

-/-

They spend the rest of the days either walking around London, seeing the sights and the places Killian had gathered memories of while growing up (like his childhood home that they'd had to give up when they couldn't afford it any longer, the park bench where he'd had his first kiss and the shelter him and Liam had adopted Davy from), or at Killian’s apartment swapping stories over the background noise of the television.

Emma feels like she's been in London - within touching distance of Killian - for months rather than a week. She isn’t sure if the thought is more happy or sad.

A day before she’s due to fly back, he takes her out on his boat. Simply because he had to prove that he did, indeed, have a boat. Emma isn’t used to sea travel but she adjusts well enough, especially considering Davy refuses to stop running dizzy circles around her in excitement.

“You’re a natural at this,” Killian grins, sauntering over to her once he’s laid anchor. “It took Elsa a while to get used to being out on the water, even longer to trust that I was a good captain, which,” he scrunches up his nose in mock annoyance.

Emma can hear the hardwood creak beneath her feet as she shifts her weight. “How long have you had this?”

He leans against the railing next to her, “Give or take, five years. Liam and I saved up for her, and I’d assumed that we’d be sharing because it was a joint investment but my brother had a different idea. Gave her to me on my birthday,” he runs his palm over the railing in contemplative silence. “She still technically belongs to the both of us, but he rarely goes out on the sea unless he’s going out with me and Elsa.”

“So, you’re out here with Davy a lot?”

“Aye,” he smiles, “it’s calming, the water. Always has been.”

Emma turns away from his profile, taking in the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, the multiple shades of blue and green and the way it does, in fact, lull her into a calmer state. Still, there’s that uneasiness in her gut, in the way she can’t keep her hands from fidgeting. (She’s been trying not to think about leaving.) (So far, the only way she’s managed to refrain from it is by telling herself that it isn’t happening; she’s always been pretty great at denial, after all.)

“Swan,” he starts, and when Emma turns to look at him his mouth is half open, like he’s halfway between a thought that he isn’t sure he should vocalise.

“Yeah?” She asks (a bit weakly, she’ll admit) as he takes half a step towards her.

“I was-,” he pauses abruptly, lightly shakes his head before saying, “I was wondering if you were hungry?”

Emma knows that’s not what he wanted to say but she lets it slide, tries to not let the intense look he’s giving her overwhelm her. Instead, she places her hand in the crook of his elbow and lets him lead her to the deck where he unwraps a few sandwiches and fruit, pouring a bit of wine for the both of them, and letting her fill the silence with the story of the first time Ingrid had taken her to the beach and they’d collected seashells.

It's early evening by the time they're done eating, Davy curled up on the edge of the blanket on the deck, having decided that the lack of ducks culminated for little entertainment. Somehow, she finds herself leaning against Killian, her head resting in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, his fingers tangling with the ends of her wind-blown hair while she thumbs at her necklace.

“There's the tale of Coma Berenices,” Killian says softly, his lilting accent continuing to lull her into a dreamlike state as he continues telling her the stories behind the stars that they can't actually see yet. “Berenice’s hair, in other words. An Egyptian queen who cut off her hair to pay of the deal she’d made with the goddess of love, to keep her husband safe during the wartime. That may be one of my favourites, an honest sacrifice for love, and all.”

“Stories about love are always so dramatic,” she hears herself mumble.

Killian’s quiet chuckle vibrates through her body, all the way down to her toes. “I believe that's the point, Swan.”

Emma hums noncommittally, pressing her nose further into his neck.

There's a small part of her wondering if the last few days have even been real. (They have, she's got the selfies on her phone that Killian insisted on taking to prove it.) It’s getting colder the longer they stay on deck and even though she has her arms folded, trapping the heat in as much as she can, and a very warm body next to her, she can still feel a shiver run up her spine.

“Are you cold? Shall we make our way back to shore?”

She leans back a little - she's close enough to make out the tint of ginger in his beard, to know the exact angle of the slope of his jaw, to lean forward just a bit to eliminate the distance between them. When she notices that his eyes are fixed on her lips, she scoffs to break the tension, says, “Scared of a little cold, Captain?”

He smirks at the nickname. “I only mean to save you from getting hypothermia, love. But we could stay out here if you'd rather I be the one to warm you up,” he raises an insinuating eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes as she pushes herself up and off him, offering her hand to pull him up. She's so used to touching him now, either unconsciously or otherwise; Emma has never been one to develop habits as quickly as this, but everything she's ever known has been flipped in over its head when it comes to Killian Jones, so, really, she isn't that surprised.

He stumbles a bit as he's getting up and almost crashed into her, steadying himself at the very last moment. But, he still ends up barely an inch away from her, his puff of breath fanning her lips.

And she's staring at his mouth again, every damn bit of her manners and restraint fallen through the gaps in the floor and straight into the depths of the sea. His hands find the sides of her face, cold fingers framing it as he leans closer and closer. Her anticipation is like an excited puppy, not being able to contain itself as she pushes herself on her tiptoes and surges to meet his waiting lips.

It's a hundred different things and it's also just one, small, simple gesture. He moves his hands further into her hair, the cold tips of his fingers pressing at the base of her skull. It's gentle and soft, the way he kisses her. Compared to him, she thinks she might be too eager with how much she's leaning into him, how closer she's tugging him by the lapels of his leather jacket. His fingers glide down to the back of her neck, and even though his skin is freezing, she feels a pinprick of a flame everywhere it meets hers.

He leaves her with one soft nip at her lower lip before he moves away, but only enough that their lips aren’t touching anymore; their foreheads are leaning against each other, almost every part of them from shoulder to hip still touching.

She squeezes her eyes shut as she lets the weight of her decision was over her (coming here, or kissing him, she isn’t sure), and tightens her grip on his jacket. She was already dreading leaving and now that she knows how he kisses, _God_ , she can still feel all of it down to her toes.

“What are we doing?” She whispers it against the winds that are picking up more each minute, and it’s laced with pain and longing and an overwhelming sense of clarity. Emma is head over heels about this man, and she’s certain she has no idea how to let him go.

“It’s called kissing,” she can hear the smile in his words, but they’re strangled as he says them.

“That’s not what I meant,” Emma opens her eyes to see his still closed, his lips swollen and his tops of his cheeks a light shade of red.

He sighs and opens his eyes, “I know.” She sees a longing there that she knows is a mirror image of her own.

“We should stop before -”

“Before what, Emma? Before one of us does something awful like get too attached?” His words should sound harsh but he speaks them gently, one hand tracing the line of her jaw from ear to chin. Emma wants to nod, wants to tell him that she’s already in too far and letting herself fall farther would only mean potential heartbreak, but he doesn’t give her a chance to speak. “Because I think I speak for the both of us when I say we are far beyond that point.”

She exhales shakily and weakly argues, “You live here, and I’m half way across the world.”

“We’ll make it work.”

“Killian,” she moves to step back but his hand tightens in her hair, unwilling to let her go.

“Tell me,” he swallows heavily, “please, just tell me that this is what you want, and I’ll never leave your side.”

There’s something that pulls her towards him, has been pulling her towards him since the minute that website matched them together. It could have been a sequence of program codes that gave her a random result but it could have also been something bigger. Emma doesn’t believe in fate, not really, but she does believe in how right it feels when she places her palm on his cheek and he leans into her touch. His forehead is creased with worry lines and her own breathing is shallow at best, but she knows she’s happier when Killian’s in the picture.

So, she slants her lips against his in a soft invite, and mumbles, “I want this.”

When he kisses her again, it’s harder and deeper, his bubbling laughter and her own grin threatening to break their kiss countless times. But not that, and not even Davy’s excited barking pushes them away from each other.

-/-

 _“Maybe you should extend your stay,”_ Ruby says over the phone, before she hushes Mary Margaret, who Emma can hear faintly in the background.

“No,” Emma sighs, fingers gripping the necklace that fits perfectly between her collarbones. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, it’ll just make it worse.”

 _“I want to say I told you so, but I know now’s not the best time. So, instead, I will tell you that you should trust him and you should trust how you feel. The odds of any of this happening were slim to none, honestly, if I went and signed up for a pen pal, I’d probably get stuck with some pervert who can’t spell or some girl with a Hemingway fetish,”_ she makes a disgusted sound, _“but what I’m trying to say is that you guys have already beat the odds once, and you can most likely do it again.”_

Ruby, for all her dramatic flair and annoying quips, can sometimes be really helpful. “Yeah,” Emma says, “yeah, probably.”

 _“See, I’m always right.”_ Emma scoffs. _“Now, tell me, is he as good of a kisser as I think he is?”_

-/-

The next afternoon is a melancholic affair, the both of them standing with their arms wrapped around each other tightly as the airport around them bustles with activity. He presses a searing kiss to her lips, his hand gripping her waist enough to keep her in place. It’s not like she wants to leave, anyway.

“I’ll miss you,” Emma says, thumb stroking the edge of his lower lip.

“And I, you. But I will see you soon, my love.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she shuts her eyes and presses her nose into his cheek, stubble scratching her skin.

“I’m a man of my word,” he replies, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bringing her closer. “It won’t be long before we’re together again.”

She leaves him with a parting kiss that’s two parts sorrow and three parts hope.

( ** _I miss you already._** The text arrives while she’s waiting for her flight to board.

 _I know how you feel._ She replies with shaking fingers, her heart sinking straight down to her stomach.)

-/-

_Killian -_

_It feels a bit weird to write to you right after I've just spent a whole week with you. And what a week it was - my phone’s still recovering from being overloaded with pictures. I’m sitting here imagining what you'd say after each line I write like we’re having a proper face to face conversation._

_(I would suggest Skype but, we’re both on different times now and there's something about these letters that’s grown on me - it's probably the extra I pay for postage stamps but now that I know you collect those it makes me feel a little better.)_

_Storybrooke is exactly how I left it, can't say I'm surprised. But, I did find a broken window near the pawn shop. Turns out it was a raccoon - I didn't know we had raccoons. But we have ducks and wolves, so I guess anything’s possible, right?_

_My mom and friends keep asking me about London and about you, and do you know that feeling where you have so much to tell that you don't even know where to start? It’s like that but multiplied by ten. I've told them most of it but Ruby’s nosy that way and Mary Margaret’s been on my back about seeing the photos. I think she wants to make a scrapbook, Killian. She’ll probably decorate it with glitter and heart stickers. (You can't see me but I'm shuddering.)_

_I don't want to end this on a sad note but, I miss you. I wish you were here._

_Hoping to see you soon,_

_Emma_

-/-

_Dear Swan,_

_There’s so much that I want to say to you but nothing that is meaningless enough to be scribbled down on a piece of paper. (That’s not to say that what we write to each other is meaningless, simply that there are more important words than just the ones about my raging heathen of a mutt and our adventures in the sun starved city of London.) (But I’m sure you know that already.)_

_I want to tell you that I miss you beyond belief, that I turn around while I’m preparing coffee thinking you’re perched on the stool, only to be terribly disappointed. I want to tell you that Davy misses you, too, keeps barking at the space on the couch that you’d claimed as yours. It’s been close to three weeks - a long stretch of time in dog years, and an even longer stretch for a man who knows how you kiss - but with every passing day, I only wish to see you more and more. I want to tell you that four days ago I walked into Robin’s bar and saw a flash of blonde hair in my peripheral vision. I also want to tell you that I had to knock back two tumblers of rum before the disappointment of her not being you dulled down._

_I want to tell you all of this, and then some, but I can’t, Swan. Not unless you’re here, in front of me. Or I’m there, in front of you._

_The latter, I must confess, seems more plausible. I have enough free time on my hands now, and enough in my financial account for a flight ticket to Boston. Nothing is confirmed as of yet, love, and if, by any chance, you’ve changed your mind and decided you don’t feel the same as I do, then I will leave you be. But, I’d like to hope that we are on the same (if not a further) chapter as where we were when you’d left, as where we were up until your last letter to me a week ago. (Speaking of which, I apologise for not writing to you sooner, and only texting you sporadically - work has been a bloody nightmare.)_

_Tell your mum that I wish her the best with her expansion endeavour, and do let me know what you think of Pulp Fiction. Really, Swan, I'm rather crestfallen you haven't seen a classic such as that one._

_Yours,_

_Killian_

-/-

She nearly drops the letter in her excitement, calls him up right after even though it's 6am his time. He mumbles a sleepy greeting into the phone before asking her if everything’s okay, and she feels like an idiot for a split second because she didn't consider the time difference or the fact that he's been working more these days, but all that fades away when she glances at the letter on the table again.

“Of course I want you to visit,” she says without any preamble, and with probably a little too much force.

 _“Forgive me, darling, I was just making sure. I didn't want to book my tickets and fly there to have your face fall as you opened your door to me,”_ comes his gravely reply.

“Hey, I had to take that risk, you know,” her fingers find the pointed edges of her necklace.

 _“And I’m eternally glad for it.”_ There's a rustle of his sheets and then, _“Is next week too soon?”_

She has to bite her lip from grinning too hard. “Not soon enough.” She waits a beat before saying, “Ruby’s going to flip.”

Killian’s answering laugh is rough with sleep and she thinks it’s a sound she’ll never get tired of hearing.

-/-

The week goes by slow, even for Storybrooke standards - a town that moves at least five times slower than any other she’s ever been to. Initially, she’d found it easy to settle down in for that exact reason; after being moved around constantly, quickly, and without much warning, Emma was given a chance to let her muscles rest and to find a monotonous routine that, albeit she complained about, loved nonetheless. The easy pace is a luxury she’d never imagined having at 17, but right now, it’s the last thing she wants.

Killian hadn’t told her what time he’d be landing, saying something about wanting to surprise her like she did him. Which, kind of ridiculous, really, because she knows the day he’s coming and she could just check the flights coming into Logan from Heathrow on that day. She’s also about thirty percent sure that he’s going to get lost on his way to Storybrooke, because even though it does exist on a standard GPS, there are still a number of shortcuts and backroads that would be useful to know about. But, she lets him have this, as dorky as he makes it sound.

She spends all of Sunday morning lounging around her apartment, trying not to seem to eager. (Maybe _lounging_ is the wrong term, _nervously adjusting and readjusting the couch cushions_ might be a better one.) Ruby’s called her twice already, David’s texted her once and she even has a message from Ingrid flashing on her screen; none of that is helping. It’s a strange mix of happiness and anxiety that takes over her. She switches her attention to Netflix and some mindless paperwork that she’d brought in from the station, hoping to drown it out.

It works for the most part.

Until there’s a knock on her door, and her stupid stomach decides to flutter again.

She breathes in once, brushes off imaginary lint from her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears before throwing open the door. His wind tousled hair and those dimples hit her harder than she’d thought they would.

“Swan,” he grins. She opens her mouth to respond but he doesn’t give her time to get anything out before he drops his bag and purposely surges forward, framing her face in his palms and crashing his lips down on hers, all in one smooth motion. Emma inhales sharply and her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, pulling herself as close to him as she can possible manage.

He tilts her head with his hand to deepen the kiss and she sighs into his mouth, tasting a hint of coffee when she runs her tongue along his lower lip.

“Apologies,” he exhales when he pulls back, lips still brushing hers, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the minute you left.”

She presses a quick kiss against his lips, “Same here.” She smiles, her stomach fluttering for a completely different reason now as Killian smooths his fingers against her cheek. “Do you wanna come in?”

“Aye, but,” he breathes in heavily and steps back half an inch, “before I do, I must tell you something.”

He goes from a grin that’s all teeth and dented cheeks to a thin lipped smile that’s barely there and she tries to not let her expression fall - really, she does. “Okay,” she replies hesitantly, even though she’s unwilling to believe that he’d come all this way to let her down.

“I haven’t exactly been completely honest with you in the last few months,” he starts, which - not really a good start by her standards. “Don’t panic, love, I promise I’m not a fugitive or anything,” he amends quickly, but it does little to actually stop her from panicking, “I just- to put it simply, I haven’t exactly been busy with my job in the last few days because I’ve quit my job. I’ve been planning to do that for months now because,” he pauses to exhale and run his hand through his hair, meeting her eyes as he says, “because once I had grasped what my feelings for you were, I didn’t want to not try.”

She swallows the lump in her throat, “Not try what?”

“This, any of it, I- I haven’t told you this but before we started writing to each other I wasn’t in the best of places. I was mentally drained and emotionally exhausted. I believed that even though I was alright at my job and in a stable family situation, that there was nothing beyond that for me; but then when I began communicating with you, all of it just somehow started to fall back into place.

“I’ve lost a lot of myself as I’ve grown older, Emma, but in the last few months, you’ve helped me better myself.” He jerks his chin toward the pendant she’s clasping in her hand subconsciously and it clicks; the North Star; the guiding light. It’s overwhelming to say the least, so Emma latches on to the only thing she can somewhat make sense of.

“You said- you said you quit your job?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to try this for real. I don’t want to regret not having put my all into it, only to lose you somewhere down the road.” His hand covers hers where it still rests on her necklace and her other one lifts up to cover his in kind. “I can’t lose you, Emma.”

She squeezes his hand, and squeezes her eyes shut, too, scared she’ll do something stupid like cry in front of him. “I still don’t-,”

“I’m moving here, my love. I found a job a half an hour’s drive away, gave an interview on my way over, in fact, even though they’d already confirmed I had it over the phone three weeks ago.” And fuck, for all her attempt, she feels her lip trembling, anyway. “If you’d rather I didn’t, I could-”

“Shut up,” she buries her face in the crook of his neck, “God, just shut up.” She huffs out something between a laugh and a sob and his free arm immediately comes up around her shoulders. “Of course I want you here, I just didn’t ever think you’d do something like this.”

She leans back immediately as the words come out of her mouth and continues, “Are you sure? Killian, it’s your whole life that you’re giving up, your family, your home. I can’t ask you to do that for- for something that’s so uncertain.”

“My home, I’d decided the night you’d walked into my apartment, is wherever you are.” She shifts her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly. “Besides, Liam and Elsa are rather excited about this prospect because it gives them more of a reason to travel, which they adore doing.”

“I can’t believe you’d do that for me.”

“You’re my bloody hero, Swan, remember? I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, give up everything I could if I had to.”

She shoots him a watery smile and leans her forehead against his, her finger tapping once against his neck, “Does that make you my Berenice?”

Killian snorts as he runs a thumb against her cheek to catch a stray tear, “Is that all you garnered from my speech? You know I practiced the bloody thing all the way here, it-,” She cuts him off with a press of her lips against his, insistent and demanding. He responds in kind, wrapping both his arms around her waist until they’re pressed together from hip to knee.

“You do have to assist me in finding an apartment, though,” he smiles down at her.

“I’m only going to help if you promise me that Davy’s moving in with you.”

“Bloody hell, love, I should have known that all this time, you were using me for my dog. You’re both traitors.”

Emma laughs as she sways into him, fingers ghosting over the V of his shirt. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for those dark haired, pirate types.”

He captures her lips again, their teeth clashing messily as they both grin too hard and attempt to compress every single immense emotion they’re feeling into one kiss.

She doesn’t realize they’re still standing in the doorway of her apartment until she hears Ruby squeal from the landing of the stairs. Emma has to break the kiss to bury her face in his chest, a groan guttering out of her throat. It’s a lot to process, sure, but here, in the simple domesticity of their actions, in the ease with which Killian chuckles softly and presses her closer to his body, she think she’s never felt lighter.

(When Killian asks her what her friend means when she calls him Mr. Darcy, Emma pretends she has no idea what he’s talking about, instead, pressing her lips to his in a welcome distraction; one she thinks she is most definitely already used to.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's much longer than the others and I had thought about splitting it into two parts but I stuck with the whole thing in the end - I'm hoping you guys won't mind too much. thankyou for all your kind comments, kudos and bookmarks on this fic, it's been so much fun to write and I appreciate all of the love it's gotten. I might revisit this verse in the future if inspiration strikes, but for now, I'm happy with ending it like this.  
> leave me a comment with your thoughts?
> 
> P.S. Casey, this wouldn't exist without you. happy belated birthday, I love you to every pumpkin patch and back.


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